It fit in a box,
all that was left.
Combustive currents caught cold
in cardboard four by four;
culmination gifted in plain brown wrapper.
The dead came into the night kitchen,
sat it on the checkered table with a note
that read "fuck you" in cha cha cherry red,
color of lips and blood and battle and
steel wills attract, iron heads repel;
forgotten purpose polarized,
fried in the collision of charged particles,
finally elevated above the beast and now
it sits contained; corrugated sides suck in,
push out; the steady breath of something huge,
eternal pulse which has not died and still so small
it fits in a box,
all that is left.